


Sea Storms

by witch_brew



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Assault, Character Death, Dark, Drowning, Gen, Graphic Violence, Murder, Other, Rape, Reader is gender neutral, Torture, Violence, breath play, but more extreme, character death- you, hydrophobia, its gross, noncon, ren is briefly mentioned, strade fucks you while you drown ok?, you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You lived in a shack near the sea. He said he had a flat tire.





	Sea Storms

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK WITH MORE NASTY SHIT. Also Im working on some Lawlaw stuff and some Vincent stuff so thats Fun.

He said he had a flat tire. Not uncommon out where you lived. 

The roads along the rough patch of cruel sea you called your home were unkempt and often covered in debris tossed up by the ocean or down from the overhanging cliff edges. Your house was sat slightly away from these treacherous roads, right next to a rocky overhang that peered straight down into the carnivorous waters below. 

Today the skies were gray and stormy, the smell of ozone filling the air and warning of the storm to come. The ocean's waves were choppy and full of the untended rage she often kept within her depths. 

You shivered as you peeked out your kitchen windows, watching the distant waves, and wished momentarily that you were brave enough to make your way to the edge of your overhang. Peer over. 

J  
u  
m  
p  
.

There was a sudden boom of thunder, loud enough that you dropped your tea on the ground, shattering the cup. You cursed to yourself, knowing you'd need to be careful picking up the shards. Last time you weren't and you had to have stitches. You hate leaving your home, you don't need to cause unnecessary harm to yourself. Not today. Nothing impermanent. 

You'd just finished sweeping the shards of your late mothers finest china up when there was another banging. Except it wasn't thunder startling you from your distracted state this time, but a sharp and desperate knocking on the door. 

A plea for solace from the winds and pouring rains. You already guessed what had happened. A wreck or something sharp beneath a tire. It happened from time to time. They weren't usually brave enough to come knocking on your door. 

You weren't old, not really, not for a while yet. But the locals called you the mourning witch of the sea anyway. They feared you, and you preferred the solitude that fear bought far too much to correct them. To let them know you only remained in this home because it's all you ever knew. To let them know you may be mourning still, but you never called the waves forth like your mother's mother once did. Witchery may have once run through your veins like poison, but it had long since dried out. 

But rumors spread anyway. 

(And sometimes they reach the ears of strangers just passing through. Sometimes they t e m p t.)

You rose from your position dusting up broken shards of china and approach the door to your home. Your tomb.

You opened it. 

He was gorgeous, dark hair and eyes of liquid gold. A charming, too friendly smile. Practically bouncing with energy, hardly shivering even though the salty ocean rain was soaking through his clothes. Flattening his hair against his skull.

“I'm sorry to intrude, my friend, but I must have run something over out there in the storm. My tire is flat and I can't drive, but I can't get a signal right now either. Do you have a phone?”

You shook your head. You didn't. Hadn't in a while. 

“No.” You said, softly, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. You had no need of it, you never saw anyone. 

(You grew your own food, paid bills through mail, no need to work with the money your mother left you. You wished you'd thrown her will into the ocean. Like she'd done with herself.)

“I don't have a phone. But you can... come in. Dry off. I'll... fix you some tea.” 

What did you think you were doing? You didn't want this. You didn't like people. But you had a soul, right? Right? You couldn't leave him. 

Besides, something about this man enchanted you. 

“Oh excellent!” He cooed, and if you'd been more aware you might have noticed the glee in his voice upon hearing you had no phone. “Thank you, liebling, my name is Strade!” 

German. He was German. You didn't speak the language.

You nodded, smiling nervously, and stepped aside. He didn't hesitate, slipping past you in his heavy, dirty boots. Dragging in the ocean's rain behind him. 

You glanced at her then, before shutting the door. She'd risen halfway up the rocks, her waves hitting higher still. She almost seemed to be climbing with a purpose. Maybe she'd finally come to claim your life as well. 

You closed the door.

And now you're here, sitting in the tiny nook you call a kitchen, the stove heating the room as well as the kettle you'd set upon it. Strade is sitting across from you, a towel draped across his shoulders. He'd discarded his drenched shirt at your request, but you'd had nothing to give in exchange, so his chest was clearly visible, coated in a thick layer of fuzz. 

He clears his throat. You've been staring.

You leap up, spinning away from him.

“The tea.” You mutter, grabbing two cups down. The collection is uneven again. Maybe you'll let him keep the one he drinks from. Just to even things out. 

You pour the boiling water into each cup. Add a bag. Set his cup in front of him to steep. 

He catches your wrist when you try to retract it and your eyes leap from their focus on the dirty floor to stare at him. 

“Wh-” You start, but he hushes you. 

“Shh, schätzchen, relax. You're very nervous.” He whispers, eyes flicking over your exposed skin. 

You ignore the way his eyes linger on the paler, scarred patches. 

He lets you go then, and you slump into your seat, shaky and confused and a little bit aroused. You add too much sugar to your tea and wait for something to happen. 

“Tell me about yourself. I've only heard rumor, and I doubt it's true.” 

You snort. So is that it? He's a curious tourist, come to stare like you're some caged zoo animal.

“Tell me what you heard and I'll tell you if it's true. Maybe.” You say, voice a bit more confident now. You can deal with this. He'll be gone by morning.

As soon as the storm clears out and he can get signal on his cell phone. 

“I heard you were a witch with the power to move the ocean. That you cause these storms with your mourning heart. That it's because your mother threw herself into the ocean. That you love the sea and she loves you.” 

You laugh out loud, a harsh and cutting sound that causes his eyes to widen in a curious, delighted sort of way. 

“Wrong. They're wrong. I knew they were fools, but they're actually complete idiots.” You stare at him, tilting your head. 

He doesn't seem disappointed. Not like a tourist would. Instead there's an odd eagerness in his pretty eyes. A gleam of impatience. And something darker still hidden beneath it all.

“Fine. I will tell you.” You say, and you sigh. This story will rip open old wounds, douse them in salt water.

“I am not a witch. My grandmother might've been, who can confirm such things other than her herself? And she is long dead. My mother did throw herself into the sea, but... she's not the one I mourn. She never loved me. She always wished... wished it had been me the ocean took.” 

You pick at your nails. 

“The ocean and I despise each other. We have for the longest time. I hate it. I'm... I'm terrified of it. Of drowning. I always have been. I never learned to swim. Never wanted to set foot into that evil water. But... my brother did. He was such a wild boy. He loved the ocean. But the ocean never loved him back. He was only ten when she took him, and she never gave him back. Not even his bones. You know, if you get taken under the waves once, you might be able to be saved. But the more they drag you down? The longer they hold you? The less likely it is you'll survive. He went under eight times before he stopped coming up. I couldn't swim, so I couldn't save him. Our mother blamed me for that. When she takes one live, she takes all those around it too. She took my mother, long before my mother jumped into her arms. And she took me.” 

You turn then, staring out at the stormy, writhing waves, and let out a shaky sigh.

“And I'm terrified.”

He lets out a hum, but says nothing else, just watching you with an oddly heavy gaze. You don't like it.

“I... I'll run you a bath.” You mutter, standing. His face relaxes then, wide grin reappearing. 

“That would be lovely, hexe!” 

You don't speak German, but you think you know that one. And you shiver in disgust as you enter your small bathroom and begin running warm water into the old, claw-foot tub. 

The water is soon near the rim, the entire room full of warm, relaxing steam. Mirror fogged.

And then you hear the sound of glass shattering and a shout of... pain. 

You turn the water off, rushing from the room, and slide into the kitchen faster than you ever have before. There's a plate on the floor, shattered, and the window is open to allow salty ocean mist and rain to be brought in by the wind. Strade is no where to be seen. 

You step forwards, approaching the glass, and don't notice him until his shadow appears on the ground in front of you, and his hands grip your shoulders tightly from behind. 

He throws you forcefully into the counter, causing you to shout in surprise, before grabbing your hair and flinging you into the glass he'd broken. 

This... this was all so planned. So deliberate. He'd come here with this specific goal in mind. 

You're going to die. 

You try to lift yourself, glass slicing into your palms as you scramble, and he stomps on your back, right between your shoulder blades, flattening your chest and face against the wooden floor. A small piece of the plate embeds itself in your cheek and you begin to cry without thinking. 

He waits until you've gone still before grabbing you by the arms and tugging you to your feet. Your right arm is twisted sharply behind your back, painful enough to bring on fresh tears. You're hyperventilating, shaking, but not fighting him as he drags you into your restroom. 

Why the restroom? 

“You're scared of drowning, right, hexe?” He whispers into your ear. You feel his erection pressing against you and let out a soft sob. Then it clicks.

The bath.

You begin struggling anew, screaming and thrashing and b e g g i n g, and he laughs. Until your elbow connects with his jawline.

He doesn't seem to like that much. 

He grips your hair roughly, slamming your face into the sink once. Twice. Your nose breaks with a sickening crunch. 

Then he holds you up so you can see yourself in the half fogged mirror. Blood pouring down your face, dripping off your chin. Slices on your cheek where it had been dragged through the broken glass. Bruises. Red eyes, puffy and tear streaked. 

You look disgusting.

You look up at his reflection instead. 

It's worse. He's flushed, his entire upper torso. His lips are stretched in a mean grin, harsh panting echoing throughout the cramped bathroom. He looks like he's going to eat you alive. 

He presses your face into the mirror then, smearing your blood across the reflective surface. 

“Apologize, hexe.” He spits into your ear.

And you do. 

You apologize and you sob and you beg him to have mercy, to let you live, to kill you in any way other than this. 

He laughs, breathless, into your ear. And then he drags your resistant, pleading body over to your tub. Forces you to kneel. 

You feel something sharp against your back and freeze, staring into the water. A drop of blood falls from your chin, tainting the clear liquid. 

Strade teases his way down to your pants and proceeds to cut them off of you.

“We're going to have fun, hexe. And if you can last until I'm done, I'll let you breathe again, deal?” 

You sob again, realizing what he's going to do, but it's too late. He's pressing the head of his cock against your entrance and pushing. Tearing his way inside of you. Feeling the way you squirm and tighten around him as you sob in agony. 

“Deep breath, hexe.” He whispers, and you manage to suck in a huge gasp before he forces your head under. 

You can feel every vein in his dick as he fucks you, pounding your body relentlessly, and you struggle to keep from gasping and sobbing and sucking water into your lungs. How long can you hold your breath?

You don't think it's going to be long enough. Your lungs are already burning for air. You begin to struggle against his hand on the back of your neck. You feel the water splashing out of the tub.

He starts fucking you harder. Dragging his cock in and out of you with a speed you had never felt before. Your own blood is lubricating the way for him, somewhat, and you shake your head violently beneath the water. You need air.

He drags the knife down your back as he fucks you, carving a deep line into the meat of your back, spilling your blood all over the hardwood. 

You scream as loud as the water will allow, feel him moaning and laughing against your back. 

You breathe. Water rushing into your lungs, burning. Burning. 

You struggle harder, trying to find air where there is none. His hands tighten. One on your neck, one on your hip. His hips begin to stutter. He's so close. But it's too late. You're breathing in more water, struggles growing weaker and weaker. 

He stills his hips, cumming inside of you, as your world succumbs to darkness. 

It takes him a while to clean up after you. Wipe away the blood, clean the glass shards, drain the tub. But it's worth it. You lie on the ground while he works, flesh beginning to slowly cool from death. 

He keeps the tea cup. Just to even things out. 

He throws your body off the rocky overhang, watching you sink into the waves below. You were right after all. They took you in like they'd been waiting a very long time. 

Then, his fun done, he walked back to his car, parked a bit out of the way, tires all perfectly plump. Ren has likely called him several times, but he rarely traveled far from home. He couldn't pass up such an opportunity. 

He drives away, humming. 

He'd told you he had a flat tire. He lied.


End file.
